


race you to the bottom

by The_raven_that_never_calls



Series: Dust & Gold [3]
Category: The Librarians (TV 2014)
Genre: Arthur is a shipper, Bastard to Son, Camelot backstory, Dulaque has a lot of time to think in prison, F/M, Father-Son Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Galahad is a bastard (literally and figuratively), Gen, Headcannons Galore, Jenkins & Dulaque | Lancelot du Lac, Lancelot is a terrible RPF writer, Lancelot is an unreliable narrator, Mentions of Lamia w/ explanation of how she’s alive, Morgan and Galahad are cute little magic nerds, Morgan le Fay & Jenkins | Galahad, sorry this is really long, ugh it's past 1 am in the morning and I am beginning to question my life decisions..., well I'm not crazy at all, why do I only ship crack ships?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-11-12 08:40:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11158257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_raven_that_never_calls/pseuds/The_raven_that_never_calls
Summary: “Father and sons… Complicated dynamic… We cannot help where we come from, but we can choose how it manifests itself.”—“If I hadn't tried, I'd actually be the monster you think I am.”-or-In the beginning, it’s simple. Lancelot meets a boy, a little small and scrawny for his age.(“You may be my father, but I’m not your son,” he constantly reminds Lancelot. “I’m your bastard. There’s a distinct separation between the two.”)-or-Arthurian Legend is really an epic RPF written by a father that desperately loves his son.





	race you to the bottom

**Author's Note:**

> Just a plot bunny that started kicking after reading Chessmaster by galaxysoup, where Lancelot gets put into a cute little prison courtesy of some wheeling and dealing between Morgan le Fay and everyone's favorite Caretaker. A couple headcannons later and this fic was born. 
> 
> Note that Guinevere is pointedly absent in this fic, because Lancelot still can’t get over her and it’s too painful to remember her. …can't really blame him. Guinevere literally prayed to die faster so she didn’t have to see Lancelot one last time. Allegedly. 
> 
> …Camelot was kinda screwy. 
> 
> Please enjoy!

_As the bitterness of defeat tastes less rancid and more resigned, Lancelot is tired of cursing his own weakness and failures and has finally resigned himself to his makeshift prison._

_There isn't much to do in his magical prison, but Lancelot supposes he could have gotten off worse._

_His captor could have been someone else. Morgan le Fay, after all, had a nasty habit of playing with her food before she ate it, and Mordred would have killed him outright, and Guinevere... well, Guinevere would have just looked at him disappointedly. (And that would hurt more than whatever Morgan and Mordred could ever hope to dish out.)_

_Galahad, however, didn't seem to want to do... **anything.** _

_He comes by, sometimes, never for long, but never does anything. At all. (Would it kill him, Lancelot thinks ruefully, to just say ‘how do you do?’)_

_That hurts Lancelot enough._

—

—

_(Galahad is, after all, his **son**.) _

—

—

In the beginning, it’s simple.

Lancelot meets a boy, a little small and scrawny for his age.

The boy has nothing except his name and the clothes on his back—and even then that tells Lancelot enough. The boy’s probably a poor orphan, most likely a bastard, whose parents had borne him out of wedlock in this magic-torn region.

Typical.

What strikes Lancelot most is the boy’s eyes. They _burn_ , hotter than dragon-fire, fiercer than the strongest steel. It’s like looking at a reflection of his younger self, before he fell so deeply, madly in love, before he fell from grace and became tainted with sin.

“What’s your name, boy?” Lancelot demands, tilting his head.

“Galahad, sir,” is the boy’s meek reply. His voice wavers.

“And why do you think you have the skills to be a knight?” Lancelot gestures to the men standing beside him. “These men have all been training when they were younger than you, practiced harder, and have the means to afford a sword. Why should you be one of their brothers in arms?”

The boy looks at him, a flicker of hurt passing through his dark-as-night eyes. His smile never wavers, though, his face still quite serene. “I’m… I’m pretty skilled with weapons, sir.”

“Pretty skilled?” Lancelot raises an eyebrow. “Show me.”

The boy does.

Pretty skilled doesn’t even cut it, Lancelot observes, as the boy disarms yet another fully-trained knight with nothing but his wits, instincts, and knife.

He wonders what will happen if someone ever gives the boy a proper sword.

In the end, Lancelot agrees to the boy’s initial request to take him to Camelot.

—

—

_"You talked to Morgan le Fay again, didn't you?" Lancelot tries to press when Galahad makes one of his visits that are becoming fewer and farther in between. "She was the only one who could have made this prison.”_

_It is the only way, after all—Galahad may be good at magic, but Morgan is unparalleled. (The woman, for all of her vices and evil, wasn’t bragging when she claimed that she was equal to the Gods.)_

_Galahad just stares at him. His face reveals nothing._

_“She never loved you, you know.” They both know that’s a lie. Lancelot wants something from him, but he isn’t sure what. Something is better than nothing because anything is better than nothing. Someone, even a shadow of his son, is better than just being alone with no one except his guilt and his now discarded ambitions._

_Galahad doesn't say a word, just turns on his heel and leaves. The door slams behind him._

_Lancelot groans and is left again to memories._

—

—

Somewhere along the journey back to Camelot from the middle of nowhere, the boy becomes less of a ‘boy’ and more of a _boy,_ more of a talent that ought to be nurtured. Power—magic, especially—in untried hands is a danger to everyone, and Lancelot has no intention of burdening Arthur further with the boy, whose affinity for weapons only slightly dwarfs his affinity for magic.

(Besides, in the boy, Lancelot sees a potential rival and sees no reason to not nip the threat to his status in the bud. Better to have a loyal rival than have a feasible challenger.)

Lancelot is the one who beats the code into the boy. He’s the one who teaches the boy the ways in magic swordsmanship. Sir Bors comments cheerfully that Lancelot seems to have quite the protégé, and both the boy and Lancelot stare at him.

“He’s not my protégé.” Lancelot scowls. “The boy isn’t even a squire. He’s still just a bastard.”

Bors tilts his head and says nothing.

The boy, for his part, just looks down at his feet, his smile becoming more and more serene. (It reminds Lancelot of a mask, the same mask he himself wears whenever he looks at Guinevere kissing Arthur.)

He wonders what the boy will look like when he’s broken.  

—

—

The other squires, Lancelot notes, seem to find some morbid satisfaction in making the boy’s life absolutely miserable. From throwing his armor into the thick underbrush to putting some unspeakable things in his clothes, the squires take care of breaking the boy for Lancelot. (Good, he reasons. The more broken the boy is before he reaches Camelot, the easier it will be to mold him into a useful tool.)

The boy’s smile only brightens in intensity. He reminds Lancelot of the sun, of a fire that is burning so brightly that the cinders begin to drift with the wind until they finally blow out. The fire hasn’t tempered in the boy’s eyes, and in the boy, Lancelot sees a younger, more whole version staring back at him.

“Why don’t you fight back?” Lancelot asks after finding the boy scrounging around in the forest because his borrowed armor ‘somehow’ vanished. (Not that the boy needed it, really. He’d been thrown into the ring countless times and emerged without so much as a scratch.) 

The boy raises an eyebrow. “Would it change anything?”

“Not really.” They’re noble boys, after all. What is a poor bastard supposed to do against people above his station? Lancelot thinks ruefully. “Might make you feel a little better.”

“Well, it’s against my own code to pick on the weak.” The boy’s smile brightens. “I’m going to be the greatest knight in all of Camelot. This is nothing compared to what I’ll face.”

His eyes, Lancelot notes, are clear, full of hopes and dreams, and Lancelot almost hates himself for planning to crush all of it—the boy included. It _hurts_ to look at him. It _hurts_. (For the life of him, Lancelot doesn’t understand _why_.)

“Good luck with that.” (And he hates himself for almost meaning it.) Lancelot affectionately punches the boy’s arm. "You'll have to surpass me first."

The boy’s eyes sparkle. “I thought I already did,” he says teasingly. It’s the first time, Lancelot realizes, that the boy has genuinely smiled this entire time.

“Ha ha.” Lancelot holds out the boy’s breastplate. He had found it—accidentally, _of course_ —when he had gone out to patrol the area. “The greatest knight in the world doesn’t lose his armor.”

The boy grins. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

—

—

Somehow, the boy never loses his armor again.

Odd really. Lancelot gives the matter little thought, but Bors looks at Lancelot knowingly.

—

—

_“Why haven’t you killed me yet?” Lancelot demands. “We both know you’re perfectly capable of doing it!”_

_He wishes Galahad would do something, **anything** —because that, in the end, is better than nothing. Lancelot would rather see his son break and rage and annihilate him through these glass walls than just watch him continue to spiral down, down, down into the darkness. _

_Galahad fixes him with a cool, calculating stare before giving him that **stupid**. gentle. smile. he used to always wear like armor. “Figure it out yourself, Mr. Dulaque,” he says before shoving a few books into Lancelot’s cell. “You do, after all, have a lot of time on your hands.” _

_He gives Lancelot a mocking salute before returning to the darkness once again._

_—_

_—_

_With wry exasperation and amusement, Lancelot notes that all of the books Galahad had given him center around Camelot’s fall._

_He shoves them in the corner and pointedly leaves them untouched. (He’s talking to one demon already—why would he need any more?)_

—

—

The boy accidentally pulls the sword from the stone, the very sword that declares him the greatest knight not just in Camelot but the entire world. He didn’t mean to pull the sword out, the boy tells him later. All the boy had wanted to do was get his own sword to challenge Kay for a seat at the table.

Of course, the boy would choose the one sword that no one had ever been able to pull out.

_Of course._

In the hustle and bustle and buzzing excitement, Lancelot manages to take the boy aside to remind him what the boy is about to become.

“You’re going be a knight now,” Lancelot murmurs, seizing the boy’s shoulders and giving the boy his best fatherly smile. “You know what that means, don’t you?”

“Big or small,” the boy recites dutifully, his smile gentle, the fire in his eyes a burning hearth, “we must do our duty.”

—

As the boy is knighted by Arthur himself, Lancelot thinks nothing of it when the boy’s eyes wander to Morgan le Fay standing by Arthur’s side.

He’s far too busy stealing glances at Guinevere to notice.

—

—

(In hindsight, he should have heard the warning bells.)

—

—

_“You’re back again.” At this point, Lancelot has given in and finally cracked open the books that Galahad had left. The worn pages and crinkled edges will tell Galahad that much. (His son doesn’t need to know the passages he bookmarked and who they contained.)_

_“A very astute observation.” Galahad adds more books to the pile with a snap of his fingers. “It’s little wonder that they once called you Camelot’s best and greatest knight.”_

_“Careful now. You’re starting to sound like Morgan.” Lancelot notices with smug satisfaction that Galahad’s face just twitches, his son’s composure breaks just enough for Lancelot to see the hurt and longing underneath his son’s cold veneer._

_“Would you prefer me to sound like Guinevere instead?” Galahad asks, his voice as ice cold as the blood in his veins._

_“You wouldn’t **dare**!” Lancelot snarls.  _

_“There’s nothing I won’t do anymore.” (Lancelot of all people knows how true that is.) Galahad fixes Lancelot with a cool gaze, the inferno blazing to life in his eyes. His son’s threat hangs in the air as the chasm between them fills with ghosts. “Enjoy the books.”_

_The door slams shut behind Galahad._

_—_

_—_

_The books he left are all about Guinevere and literary interpretations of her._

_Those books go unread. (A thousand years still can’t fix a broken heart.)_

—

—

Pulling out the sword declaring the wielder ‘the greatest knight in the world’ is no way to win friends. It’s a better way to win enemies, Lancelot observes, as he watches the boy becomes increasingly isolated by the rest of the Knights of the Round Table.

The boy’s smile never falters, his eyes still bright, and in the morning light, Lancelot sees a younger version of how he should have been.

The boy is agreeable, always willing to lend a hand, always taking things in stride. Criticism seemed to stick to him, but never long enough to scar. Everything he does, the boy does well—not well enough to arouse too much suspicion, but well enough to leave everyone sore about the entire affair. He is a handsome boy with a brilliant smile and scintillating wit and respectful and adheres strictly to the code. Everyone who knows him likes him.

“I hate that son of a bitch,” Gawain growls. (No one can really blame him.)

Arthur’s most trusted knights are drinking in the hall, complaining about the goings-on in the kingdom. After the usual complaints about Merlin and Morgan have been vented, they’ve since turned to talk of their newest and supposedly ‘greatest’ knight.

“Here, here.” Morien drinks to that.

“Jumped up, smarmy little bastard,” Lamorak agrees as fills their cups once again.

The boy, who’s sitting with them at Arthur’s insistence and watching the entire exchange, doesn’t even bat an eye. His smile never once leaves his face. “I’m sorry you think that,” he says quietly.

“No one cares what you think.” Morien rolls his eyes. “You’re not even a real knight of the Round Table.”

The boy’s eyes darken. Lancelot thinks he knows the boy well enough to know the boy is fighting back a retort about how Morien is only a knight of the Round Table in order to secure a treaty with his father and his kingdom.

Pity, Lancelot thinks, it would be quite cutting. The boy, for all his smiles and kindness, isn’t very honest.

Instead, the boy’s smile is brighter. “I’ll show you all that I’m worthy of this sword.”

“The only sword you’re worthy of is one that’s swallowed,” Lamorak chuckles.

They all laugh. Galahad’s eyes fall on Lancelot’s, almost pleading.

Lancelot pointedly buries himself deeper in his cup. (No need to damage his reputation in Camelot by associating himself with a _bastard_ in public.)

“We all know that _Lancelot_ is the greatest knight in all of Camelot!” Gareth points out, smacking Lancelot on the back. (Privately, Lancelot can’t help but agree.) “If anyone deserved that sword, it’s _him_. He’s done more for the realm than you ever will”

“Well said!” Gawain slaps his younger brother on the back. Gareth grins.

“What have you done _other_ than pull a sword from a stupid stone?” Gaheris demands, towering over the much smaller boy. “Tell us, you bastard!”

“I have a name, you know,” the boy says softly. His hands clench into fists, but his smile never falters. “My name is Galahad.”

“And what do you want to do about that?” Gaheris smirks, his hand reaching for his sword.

At this point, Lancelot has to play the adult. Though he doesn’t want to intervene, Lancelot doesn’t want to deal with another drunken brawl like last time. (Besides, he has a reputation to maintain.)

“Lay off, you idiots. Greatest knight in the world or not, the boy is still just a bastard,” Lancelot reminds them, pointedly moving Gaheris’ hand far, far away from his sword. “Stop picking on someone who can’t even fight back.”

“See!” Morien gestures wildly, spilling the wine from his cup. “ _That’s_ what the greatest knight in the world sounds like!”

They let out a drunken cheer, clinking their goblets together and downing it all in a gulp.

“Right.” The boy looks down at his still-full cup. “You’re right.”

He says nothing more. He just looks at Lancelot and Lancelot wonders if that’s what the face of heartbreak looks like.

—

—

To everyone’s surprise and delight, Arthur wastes no time in assigning the boy to be Morgan le Fay’s personal bodyguard. “It’s a suitable position of someone of his caliber,” Arthur reasons and he actually means it. (Unlike the rest of the knights, Arthur for some reason _likes_ the boy.) “I have faith that my sister is in quite capable hands.”

He smiles at Morgan knowingly, and the witch just rolls her eyes.

Everyone else knows better. Playing babysitter to Morgan le Fay is the equivalent of hell on earth. With her concoctions to spells to weapons, it’s safer to try to fight a dragon—magical resistance and flames and all—than try to keep an eye on Morgan le Fay.

Most knights last a week before they go running back to Arthur with their tail between their legs and begging to do anything but guard her.

—

Eventually, Lancelot realizes that Galahad has been on babysitting duty for a month without so much as a peep.

—

While spying on Morgan’s experiments with the boy as her reluctant guinea pig, Lancelot watches the boy get flung across the courtyard, set on fire, nearly drown, break half of the weapons that Morgan’s given him to use, and almost manages to break every bone in his body.

And that’s just the first hour.

Throughout all of it, Galahad is the happiest that he’s ever been. 

“I told you to emphasize safety!” the boy yells. (Lancelot’s eyes bug out of his head when he does that the first time—Morgan’s been known to strangle people for less than that.) “These things are powerful, but they’re useless if they **_break_**!”

Lancelot’s eyes are dangling out of his head when Morgan yells _back_. “And I’m telling you that you should have enough magic control to make sure they don’t, you fool! You can do better than that, Galeas, so hurry up and _show me_!”

“Then hurry up and _listen to me_!” the boy snaps. He tosses back the sword Morgan had just hurled at him. She catches it, looking just as surprised as Lancelot feels. “Just modify the spell with the rune of healing and I don’t have to worry about how delicate this weapon is! Hurry up and show me why you’re the most powerful witch on the planet!”

Lancelot waits Morgan to curse him, to smite him right there and then or tell him to hold his tongue and use magic to do that quite literally. Instead, Morgan examines the enchantment on the sword carefully, frowning. “You do have a point...”

“I always have a point.” Morgan glances up from the sword to look at the boy, and the boy’s lips quirk into a half-smile, his eyes shining. “I have a _sword_ , you know. It comes with being a knight.”

Morgan gives him a half-smile back. “You’re right. I’m sorry, Galeas.” She does sound it, much to Lancelot’s astonishment. (Actually, he’s just shocked that Morgan can even _say_ the word ‘sorry.’ For years, he’s thought it the one missing spot in her vocabulary.)

All at once, the frustration at the other dissipates into something else that Lancelot can’t quite place.

“Good.” The boy accepts the newly enchanted sword graciously, testing it out with an absentminded swing. This time, it doesn’t break. “This is good work, my lady.”

“Well, you did help.” Morgan grins. “Thank you.” (Lancelot can only _gape_ at hearing that.) “Good work, Galeas.”

The boy’s expression softens, a sharp contrast to the way he’s wielding the blade in his hands, a beautiful deadliness fused with a breathtaking dance.

“You’re going to have to join Merlin and myself from now on,” Morgan continues, watching the boy effortlessly wielding the enchanted blade. “Your input on spellwork has become invaluable, you know.”

“And miss sword practice?” The boy laughs, pausing mid-swing. “What kind of knight would I be if I did that?”

Morgan’s eyes sparkle. “Still the greatest knight in the world.”

(She’s so convincing that Lancelot almost believes that she _means_ it.)

The boy looks down at the ground. “Not according to everyone else.” His face darkens. Lancelot feels a twinge of guilt. (The boy smiles so often that Lancelot didn’t even realize the boy _could_ be sad.)

“Galeas…” Morgan’s hand floats up to his face, ghosting over his cheek before resting itself over his heart. “You _are_ the greatest knight in the world.” She smiles softly. “I don’t need a sword to tell me that.” Morgan tilts the boy’s head so he’s staring at her, his brown eyes dark and trusting.

“I haven’t done anything,” he whispers, his doubts and insecurities laid bare for her and only her. (Lancelot has to stop himself from saying anything, from saying that Morgan le Fay is the most manipulative, self-serving woman in this entire world and saving the boy from her claws.) 

“But you will.” Her eyes are shining. She reaches out to pull him close, and he leans into her embrace. “I know you, Galeas, and you’re the greatest knight in the world just as you are.” 

—

—

From that day on, Galahad ends up missing sword practice every other day.

—

—

_“I didn’t enjoy the books.” Lancelot frowns as Galahad returns. The darkness in his son’s eyes is back, magic unconsciously pooling at his son’s fingertips. He’s vividly reminded of his son during the Fall—all wild magic and destruction and self-righteous wrath and rage._

_He wonders what happened to the foolish Librarians and Guardian this time. (In the end, though, he remembers he doesn’t care.)_

_“I thought you’d enjoy them.” Galahad’s smile is too saccharine sweet. “The same way I enjoyed reading your interpretation of Morgan.”_

_He almost wants to ask his son about what his son thinks of his interpretation of the Grail Knight of Virtue, but Lancelot already knows the answer._

—

_But they were true once—from a certain point of view._

—

—

“Don’t trust her,” he tells the boy when the boy isn’t trailing Morgan—just behind her but almost by her side—like a loyal, little lapdog. It’s almost as if the boy is chasing her back, trying to stand shoulder to shoulder with her as an equal. (Chasing the impossible, Lancelot thinks. It’s nostalgic, really, and unlike Lancelot, Galahad is one stubborn bastard.)

Lancelot’s plans to hone the boy into a tool are already jeopardized with that woman’s interference, and he doesn’t need any more of his plans to go awry.

The boy’s smile fades. “That’s like saying I shouldn’t trust you.”

(He shouldn’t but that’s not the point.)

“She’s done terrible things in the past.” (That’s the understatement of the century.)

“So have you.” The boy’s eyes are sharp. “And no one holds you to that.”

Lancelot glares at him incredulously. “Name one thing.”

The boy hesitates before whispering, “Guinevere.”

—

Things escalate from there.

—

It ends when Lancelot snaps and says what amounts to: the boy is nothing without him and that the boy is nothing more than a bastard living on borrowed time until Morgan gets bored of him and moves onto her next conquest and plaything and that Lancelot is the one who’s trying to look out for him.

“Then why do you only see me as a bastard like everyone else?” the boy asks quietly. “You don’t believe me anymore than any of the others do.”

“Because you’ve done nothing!” Lancelot snaps. “You are _nothing_. The only things you have right now are the affections of the most evil of creatures and a sword that declares that you’re the greatest knight in the world— _allegedly_.”

“I thought...” The boy’s gaze lowers to the ground. “I thought you at least believed in me a little, if nothing else.”

“And what? You thought that you’d become the greatest knight in the world and marry the woman you fell in love with?” Lancelot can’t keep the bitterness out of his voice as he thinks Guinevere and what could have been. “That’s not how the real world works,” Lancelot snarls, “and we don’t always get what we want.”

The boy lowers his head, his smile fading. “I see.”

—

—

(It takes Lancelot years to realize that he doesn’t.)

—

—

_"Lamia's alive, you know," Galahad mentions in passing as he sets down more books for Lancelot. This time, Lancelot notes, they’re all about the Holy Grail._

_“Is she now?” Silly girl, Lancelot thinks. She reminded him of Guinevere, with her ideas of making a better, more peaceful world. She reminded him of Guinevere, and so she had to die—sooner or later and hopefully in a useful manner. “What did you do?”_

_“I told her a story about a knight that helped the weak and the helpless.” Galahad’s smile is quite serene. “It was a very idyllic fairy tale that eventually came true.”_

_"The Libris Fabula." Lancelot tilts his head. "Clever."_

_Galahad grins before it's replaced by thinned lips. "I'll have you know your Serpent Brotherhood is still thriving."_

_"Is it?” Lancelot lets out a bark of a laugh. “I thought you would have set them all on fire." That’s what dragons did, after all, when they got angry._

_“Well, Lamia is quite good at running things for me.” Galahad shrugs as Lancelot gapes at him. “Balance must be maintained, after all. They are a necessary evil for the scales of order and chaos to remain stable, and big or small, we must do our duty.”_

_“I hadn’t realized how far you had fallen.”_

_Galahad laughs humorously. “I’ve always been like you. I was just better at hiding it.” He stares off blankly into the distance, fingers unconsciously rubbing against his left ring finger that is, Lancelot notes with some relief, thankfully bare. “The things we do for love, I suppose.”_

_Lancelot stares at Galahad, and it’s like looking at an even more warped reflection of himself. If Lancelot were a mirror, Galahad would be twisted, broken glass. "You're just like me,” he whispers sadly._

_“What did you expect?” Galahad arches an eyebrow. “I’m your bastard.”_

_No. You’re my **son** , Lancelot thinks bitterly. And this isn’t what I wanted for you. _

—

—

Lancelot barely sees the boy for months as the boy is off gallivanting with Morgan and Merlin running errands and meaningless tasks and the like. (The boy, however, seems to somehow earn the respect of the peasantry in full—already, the boy’s being hailed in taverns as the greatest knight in all of Camelot.) When the boy does return, his joyous smile immediately fades back to the serene one he always wears whenever he isn’t around Morgan.

The lads all manage to egg him into a spar, which the boy does begrudgingly (if only to get them off his back). The boy, Lancelot notes, is fighting just enough to win but is holding back enough to not humiliate the poor soul on the opposite side of his sword. The boy, it seems, actually adheres to his code of not picking on the weak and those that cannot defend themselves.

If he hadn’t been a bastard, Lancelot ruefully acknowledges, the boy would have been the perfect knight.

That is—of course—until the boy shows that even nice people have their limitations. (The boy may be a nice boy, but that’s doesn’t mean he is always a good man.)  

One moment, the boy is thanking everyone for their time and sheathing his sword—the next, he’s showing everyone why he is slowly being hailed as the greatest swordsman in Camelot.

When the boy has been called a bastard, a swordswallower, a walking stain, blah blah blah… the boy didn’t so much as even blink. The moment, however, someone even implied that Morgan dishonored herself by sleeping around and that Galahad was only there to—

“ _Say. That. Again_.” The fire that had been smoldering in the boy’s eyes becomes a full-blown inferno. His sword is kissing the man’s neck ever so softly, not enough to leave a lasting scar but enough to draw blood.

The boy isn’t smiling. _At all._

That’s terrifying enough in it of itself.

—

By the time the boy’s through with the thoroughly disciplining the idiot, Lancelot thinks it quite lucky that the poor soul still has a body. The knight should have apologized to a woman who wasn’t even there and left it at that. Instead, the idiot thought it was a good idea to challenge the boy to a duel and call him a cowardly, failed bastard who didn’t deserve to be call the greatest knight in the world. The boy probably would have still been merciful—if the idiot hadn’t continued insulting Morgan le Fay.

“I don’t care what any of you call me,” the boy seethes as he meticulously breaks the buffoon apart—piece by painstaking piece. “But I will not tolerate you disrespecting Lady Pendragon in front of me.”

The idiot whimpers his newfound agreement.

Satisfied, the boy snaps his fingers and heals the idiot knight’s injuries before stalking off like a brooding, murderous dragon.

No one dares to try to stop him.

“Galeas.” Morgan’s voice cuts through the silence. The boy’s eyes meet hers, and all of a sudden, the spell is broken and the boy is the smiling knight once again.

“My lady.” He sheathes his sword, suddenly sheepish. “My apologies for showing you such a disgraceful sight.”

“I don’t need you to defend my honor, you know,” Morgan reminds him gently. 

The boy looks at her like she is his entire world. (To him, Lancelot realizes, she is not just a star but the entire damn sky.) “I would do it regardless, even if I wasn’t your sworn knight, my lady.” Lancelot doesn’t miss the fondness in the boy’s voice or his smile.

Morgan grins back. “You fool.”

They walk out of the courtyard together, side by side.

—

—

_“Why do you keep coming back?” Lancelot asks Galahad. His son is expanding Lancelot’s cell and even added a flat screen television and gaming console._

_They both know how much Lancelot hates those infernal things._

_“You still haven’t guessed?” Galahad’s expression reveals nothing. “Think a little harder, Mr. Dulaque.”_

_Galahad leaves more books about Camelot as usual—only this time, they’re all about **him.** _

_Lancelot cringes as he begins to leaf through scholars psychoanalyzing his own motives and flaws. (None of them are remotely true, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t **hurt**.) _

—

—

“I’m sorry,” Lancelot tells the boy, swallowing his pride. (Because it took the boy’s absence to make him realize that he missed the boy, that the boy was, as Bors once rightfully pointed out, his protégé, and that the boy is more than a bastard.)

The boy forgives him with time.

He tells himself that it’s enough.

—

—

—

“Try not to die, boy,” Lancelot tells him as they and the rest of the party prepare to ride off and take care of a dragon threat.

The boy laughs, his smile so bright and _real_. (It _hurts_ to see him like this, but for the life of him, Lancelot doesn’t know _why_.) “I should say the same to you, old man.”

“Ha!” In spite of himself, Lancelot can’t help but grin.

—

The boy needn’t have worried in hindsight.

They all watch as the boy earns the title of ‘greatest knight in the world’ with a few swings of his sword. The dragon dies, and a new one takes its place. (Galahad, he realizes, has always been a dragon through and through.)

Lancelot should have worried more in hindsight.

As the boy is being praised and commended by all the Knights of the Round Table and _finally_ receiving the recognition he deserves, he’s only looking wistfully at Morgan.

(Lancelot, if he had been more observant, would have seen her looking longingly back.)

—

—

_Sometimes, Lancelot notices, Galahad slips back into old habits. (Galahad back in the day had smiled so often that Lancelot forget that he could be sad in the first place.) Lancelot wishes that there wasn’t this inconvenient glass wall between the two of them so he could personally wipe that stupid, fake smile off his son’s face._

_“You can tell me things, you know,” Lancelot murmurs. “Who am I going to tell?”_

_“I already am.” Galahad hands over more books. “Actions speak louder than words, after all.”_

_“What are you trying to tell me?” Lancelot demands, irritated and bored out of his mind and frustrated and praying that some divine force will strike down this glass wall so he can throttle the answer out of Galahad._

_“Good luck trying to find the answer.” Galahad smiles—a real one this time. Then he settles down on a chair and patiently listens to Lancelot’s infuriated rant._

_—_

_(In hindsight, that should have told Lancelot everything he had needed to know.)_

—

—

Lancelot cannot help but feel somewhat envious of Gawain as he coos over his bawling brat. Gawain is a _father_. Gawain, the once brash, hot-headed youth that Lancelot had nearly stabbed to death the first time he met the idiot is a _father_.

Though, how long he’ll be a father for is up to debate, given the fact that Gawain’s first and only son seems to be bent on screaming himself to death. The nurse maid and Ragnelle, Gawain’s wife, are desperately trying to soothe the child, but to no avail.

Arthur laughs, slapping Gawain on the back. “Well, at least you know that your son is alive.” Arthur’s eyes are shining. “Congratulations, my boy!”

Lancelot and Merlin both exchange exasperated glances—they both have enough duties to attend to that did _not_ need a child-induced migraine. Guinevere looks like she’s about to commit regicide if she has to endure the screaming for a moment longer. Morgan looks thoroughly unimpressed at the thought of being a great aunt of all things, and Morgause looks torn between being overjoyed and irritated by the entire proceedings.

The boy somehow manages to convince Ragnelle to let him hold the child. A quiet lullaby and a few rocks later, the baby begins to quiet in the boy’s arms. When he gazes at the wiggling babe, the boy’s smile becomes more and more serene.

“You’re worried,” Morgan remarks quietly, her hand tentatively reaching out to brush the boy’s.

“Childbirth is dangerous,” the boy says darkly, a shadow crossing his face as he looks down at the babe in his arms. It’s as if he’s speaking from experience. (He probably is, if everything he says about the nunnery is true—the Mother Abbess, it seems, saw no qualms in putting a boy to work in every imaginable shape and form.) His eyes soften as he meets Morgan’s gaze. “But it’s nothing to worry about—not when Lady Ragnelle has the greatest healer in all of Camelot attending to her and her child.”

Morgan rolls her eyes. “Flatterer.”

“Ah, but it isn’t flattery if it’s true.” His eyes are shining, and even Morgan can’t help but return his smile with one of her own. The baby gurgles happily, reaching up to grab Galahad’s face. The boy laughs, eagerly indulging the child. “Do you want to hold him, my lady?” he asks Morgan, eyes sparkling.

If Lancelot didn’t know better, he would have said that Morgan almost looked afraid at the prospect. (Morgan le Fay does many things, but fear was certainly not one of them.)

“Here.” The boy gently places the baby in her shaking hands.

As if on cue, the baby immediately starts to cry in her arms.

The midwife and Gawain’s wife look terrified at the prospect of Morgan cursing the child for annoying her, but Morgan seems more lost than liable to send the child flying to Kingdom Come. Morgan is helplessly looking to the boy for guidance and he delivers. The boy patiently tells her what to do, his hands gently guiding her and showing her the best way to soothe the child.

In no time at all, the baby quiets once again.

“You’d make a good mother,” the boy remarks quietly as the child falls fast asleep in Morgan’s arms. (Lancelot is pretty sure the boy is the only one in the room who remotely thinks that.)

Morgan’s cheek burn scarlet.

Arthur and Morgause smirk at that. 

—

—

“Don’t you wish for an heir?” Gawain asks Lancelot as Lancelot holds the child. “A lady to love and a son to carry on your name?”

Lancelot’s eyes flick to the still childless Guinevere before he reluctantly forces himself to look at Gawain. He has always desperately wanted to be father, but he has only loved one woman his entire life—and she’s not available for courting and Lancelot would never want to father a bastard.

Still, that want has turned into something past desperate and close to despair.

On days like these, he dreams of imparting the code into his son, of teaching his son how to properly wield a sword and magic. He wants nothing more than to look at his son and look at his living, breathing legacy and count down the days to when his son surpasses Lancelot himself.

“Every day,” he murmurs wistfully. Lancelot gives Gawain a rueful smile. “But we don’t always get what we want.”

—

—

Perhaps, Lancelot thinks sourly, he was like Arthur and destined to never be a father.

—

—

“I wish you were my son,” Lancelot says quietly after the boy disarms him and asks for his surrender during a friendly spar. The boy is really less of a boy and more of a man, but he’ll always be the boy to Lancelot because he eclipses all other boys that Lancelot has trained and known.

This boy is his protégé. This boy, he realizes, is his legacy.

This boy, for all his faults and failings, is all he has that is close enough to a son.

(This boy, after all, is everything that he so desperately wanted in a son—the perfect, honorable knight that surpasses Lancelot himself.)

The boy stares at him. “I _am_ your son.”

Lancelot freezes.

“My mother is Elaine of Cornberic,” the boy continues softly. “You slept with her, before you came to Camelot, before you met Arthur. You slept with her and together, the two of you made me.”

Lancelot remembers that, a drunken night of fun and Elaine—so beautiful, so much like Guinevere—before she became Arthur’s reluctant but blushing bride, when she was just another highborn lady and he was just a lord—if he squinted, so eager and willing in his arms and... But he hadn’t thought… hadn’t imagined… And this boy looked so much like _him_ —how did he not—how could he not see…

“You didn’t think to mention this to me?” Lancelot barely manages to whisper.

The boy— _his son_ looks at him almost…pityingly. “I thought you already knew.”

 _Shit_.

—

—

Everything he had ever wanted has been staring at him this entire time.

—

—

“I’m sorry,” Lancelot manages to mumble after the shock and horror has worn away into something softer. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” ( _I wanted to be there for you. I wanted to be your father—if I had known. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry._ )

“Don’t be.” His son gives him a gentle smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Greatest knight in the world or not, I’m still just a bastard. I never needed a father anyway.”

—

(Perhaps the reason why Galahad was the greatest knight in the world was because he didn’t need to draw his sword to leave lasting scars.)

—

—

_“Did you have anything to do with writing what became the Arthurian legend?” Lancelot barely glances up as Galahad returns, pouring over manuscripts and books, spreading them all across the floor so the ground is littered in paper._

_“Not as much as you did.” Galahad shrugs, setting more books down in the pile. “I leave the writing to you. It’s all your fault that Camelot and Arthur and the Round Table turned into bad fanfiction.”_

_“You know why I did that, don’t you?” Lancelot searches for the bright spark of hope that once burned in his son’s eyes. “You’re my **son**.” _

_“I’m not.” Galahad smiles serenely. “I’m your bastard. There’s a distinct separation between the two.”_

_For a moment, he is the smiling knight once again. Then the years return, and he’s as much of an old man as Lancelot is and feels._

—

—

Lancelot wants him to be his son— _officially_ , but doing so would set off a war over the succession of his realm Joyous Gard. His cousin Lionel would march on Galahad the moment his son was legitimized by Arthur himself, and his son has made it quite clear that he wants nothing to harm the stability of the realm over such trivial personal squabbles.

“Big or small,” his son reminds him quietly, “we must do our duty.”

—

And so, Galahad remains his bastard, not his son. 

—

—

By the time the quest for the Holy Grail comes about, Lancelot has tried again and again to make up for everything, and Galahad gently rebuffs his attempts, saying that as a bastard, Lancelot owes him nothing and he’s better off on his own.

(“You may be my father, but I’m not your son,” he constantly reminds Lancelot. “I’m your bastard. There’s a distinct separation between the two.”)

His departure, however, brings out the best and worst in them.

Morgan looks like she is already imagining his funeral as Camelot officially sends Galahad, Percival, and Bors off. The silver ring on her finger glitters in the sunlight. (Lancelot has a sneaking suspicion about who exactly gave it to her.) Galahad smiles, leaning forward to whisper something in her ear. She laughs and holds him close, closer than is necessary, kissing his forehead. His fingers trace the ring as he murmurs her a promise only she can hear. 

Before Galahad leaves, he stops at Lancelot and gives Lancelot a look that makes his heart hurt.

“Good bye, son.” Lancelot embraces him, already praying for his safe return. “Travel well.”

Galahad tellingly doesn’t correct him. “Travel well,” his son echoes before riding off into the distance, leaving both Morgan and Lancelot behind.

—

—

_Galahad doesn’t return for ages, and Lancelot’s almost afraid that he’s gone for good._

_He holds out hope, though. Galahad is the kind of man who won’t die even if you kill him._

—

—

Bors and Percival return a year later without the Holy Grail and his son.

“He saved us,” Bors tells an uncharacteristically quiet court. “He got the Grail and the cavern started collapsing… We… We couldn’t move. There was some sort of magic or enchantment. Galahad tried to get us all out, but he could only cast enough magic to get two of us out of that cavern…” Bors trails off, his voice breaking. “H-he told me that he’d catch up with us soon.”

Lancelot wants to sink to the floor and weep, but he can’t move. He’s frozen stiff, unable to grieve or blame. He can’t feel anything anymore.

Arthur’s gaze, Lancelot notices, is fixed upon Morgan’s. Her eyes are a mixture of fury and grief and heartbreak. Bors looks at her and only her as he searches for something—absolution, perhaps? Or maybe he’s just terrified that Morgan will destroy him on the spot, like she had so many others. 

Instead, Bors pulls two items from his pouch. “He told me to give this to you,” Bors murmurs softly to Morgan. It’s a handkerchief with her colors of green and gold and a small rolled up bit of parchment.

“When did he give you this?” Her voice is barely above a whisper. Morgan accepts the pair of items with shaking hands. She reads the piece of parchment and looks like she will fall apart at the slightest touch.

“As the cavern was collapsing.” Bors leans down to whisper something in her ear, but Morgan bats him away.

“He’ll tell me that when he returns,” she snaps. The silver ring on her finger glints, the sapphire stone glowing a soft blue.  

“Lady Morgan…” Percival’s face becomes stricken. “He’s not. We tried to dig him out, but… we couldn’t get to him. It’s too far. It’s too dangerous to just retrieve a bo—“

“That’s enough Percival.” Lancelot is as surprised as everyone else when he realizes it’s his own voice that’s speaking. “That’s quite enough,” he says in a softer voice. “We’re grateful that the two of you have returned safely. That has to be enough.”

—

It isn’t. 

—

—

Lancelot doesn’t remember much from that time.

The only thing he does remember from his haze of grief and loss and self-pity and anger is that he commiserated with Morgan and the former lovers reconciled enough for the first time in years.

“Sorry.” They both mutter to each other, both meaning it and not. ( _Sorry that we both lost him. Sorry for not being able to protect him. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry._ )

(They’re not sorry for what they did to each other, though.)

They both have loved and lost the same person, and misery enjoys company.

—

—

_When Galahad returns, Lancelot is relieved to see him alive and well. He doesn’t miss the darkness and tiredness in his eyes, but Galahad is alive—still—and that’s enough._

_“You look like hell,” Lancelot remarks. “I’ve figured out your little message.”_

_“Did you?” Galahad leans back in his chair. “Enlighten me.”_

_“Is this the way you tell someone they forgive them?” Lancelot raises an eyebrow. “Most people just say it outright, you know. Much easier.”_

_“Close, but no cigar.” Galahad laughs. “Try again.”_

—

—

Two years is not enough time to heal a broken heart, but that doesn’t seem to matter much because Camelot is on the brink of war and their only move is to marry Morgan off to the rival kingdom’s idiot son to bring about some semblance of peace.

“Morgan…” Arthur’s voice is soft as he looks at her pouring over the terms of the peace treaty. “I don’t want to force you into a marriage.”

“And risk war over it?” Morgan raises an eyebrow, her smile sad. “Big or small, we must do our duty, after all.” She and Lancelot share a knowing look because (from what Morgan tells him) Galahad used to remind her of that all. the. damn. time. _(“It was one of his cute points,” Morgan had told him, her smile pained. “He was the only knight who ever treated me like a lady.”)_

“I’m sorry.” Arthur bows his head. “I wanted… You know I…”

Morgan reaches out to give her brother’s hand a squeeze. “I know.”

—

—

But Galahad returns before Morgan has to deliver her response.

He looks like he’s been to hell and back. There are bags under his eyes. His son looks like a man who has lost his entire world and has only just come back to life. He’s haggard looking, not the shining golden boy he left as, but he’s _back_ and he’s _alive_ and that’s more than enough.

(The Holy Grail, his son mentions in passing, is in the Library, but at this point, no one really cares.)

He and Morgan return side by side, as if he has left for the Grail only yesterday. They’re close, hands brushing against each other, no longer worried about being a polite distance away. (Galahad looks at her as if she is the only thing anchoring him to the earth, as if without her, he will lose himself and float away.) Arthur pulls the boy into a tight embrace. Guinevere can’t stop herself form smiling. Lancelot hugs him fiercely when he catches glimpse of his son and it’s the first and last time that Galahad ever calls him father.

“I’m back, father.” Galahad smiles, his eyes gentle. “I’m home.”

Lancelot grins, blinking away tears. “Welcome back, son.”

—

“I told you I’d catch up,” he tells Bors, smiling. “It just took longer than expected.” Bors just throws his arms around the once-dead man and cries.

—

—

In the end, it’s Lancelot that pries Bors off Galahad and Arthur that calls for a celebration for the knight that finally made his triumphant return. Amidst the hubbub, Lancelot notices both Morgan and Galahad are missing.

“Know where your sister is?” Lancelot asks Arthur pointedly.

Arthur just shrugs innocently. “Who knows?”

Lancelot frowns disapprovingly. “Right.”

(They both know _exactly_ where she is and who she’s with.)

—

—

_“Is this a point about how Camelot wasn’t the shining city?” Lancelot asks, gesturing to the books that have since piled up in his cell. “That nostalgia is all well and good, but reality isn’t so kind?”_

_“You never were good with riddles.” Galahad’s lip twitches. “Wild magic… Cruel kings… Mad wizards… Dragons attacks… For all of its faults, Camelot was home.”_

_Lancelot glares at him. “I only wanted to change its fate.”_

_“Camelot’s fate was a fixed point in time,” Galahad says, not unkindly. “You can’t change it.”_

_“You did.” Lancelot tries to remember exactly why Morgan hadn’t included Galahad in their little plan. “You were supposed to die on the Grail Quest, but you didn’t. You came back.”_

_“That was… different.” Galahad frowns. “I had promises to keep.”_

_“Yes, and you weren’t going to let a pesky thing called Fate get in your way.” Lancelot laughs and Galahad’s eyes soften._

_His son gives him a tentative smile._

_—_

_The silence, this time, is fonder than usual._

—

—

Galahad’s return marks a new dawn for Camelot. The rival kingdom inexplicably collapses, its lands and lords and knights willingly joining Camelot. (Lancelot has a sneaking suspicion that Galahad may or may not have something to do with it. Arthur never confirms or denies this and Galahad certainly isn’t talking.)

Camelot is at the height of its power—which opens up an entirely new can of worms.

Arthur still lacks a proper heir. He and Guinevere are childless. Gawain has already excused himself from the line of succession, with Gaheris and Gareth following suit. Agravain shadows Arthur for a single day before taking himself out of the running as a king candidate.

And Mordred… Mordred isn’t exactly _ideal—_ overly aggressive, bombastic idiots never did make for good kings—but he’s the only one left unless they wanted _Morgan le Fay_ running Camelot as Queen. (The answer, obviously, was a resounding **_hell no_**.)

They had all but resigned themselves to serving an idiot, warmongering king, when Morgan suggests, during a small council meeting, a surprisingly viable alternative.

“What if Geleas were your successor?” she asks Arthur.

“Galahad?” Arthur nods his head thoughtfully. “He would be a good candidate, but he has no claims to the throne.”

“He could marry me,” Morgan points out. “As the Grail Knight of Virtue—and if Lancelot were to legitimize him, he’d be an ideal suitor and successor. Mordred’s fond enough of him and wouldn’t challenge his claim, and Camelot would be blessed with another good king after you pass on.”

Arthur turns to his best friend and right-hand man, almost…eager. “Lancelot?” 

Lancelot glares at Morgan. The things he wants to say wouldn’t be appropriate given the company. He instead settles for saying, point-blank, “You’d be a _terrible_ queen.”

“Which is why Galeas would be running the show.”

“And what would you do then in your free time? Cuckhold my son?” Lancelot demands. “Should I count the number of lovers you’ve had?”

“That’s enough!” Arthur slams his hand onto the table before Lancelot can continue and Morgan can curse him. “I want objective opinions only! Lancelot—mind your tongue about my sister.”

“Fine,” Lancelot mutters darkly. He wonders if Arthur would be as infuriated if someone insulted Guinevere.

Sighing, Arthur turns to his sorcerer in chief. “Merlin?”

“No offense Morgan but I’d rather have Mordred as king. At least the other knights can reign him in.” Merlin gives her a sheepish look. “Sorry.” 

Morgan throws him a nasty glare. 

A few more comments and remarks, and the results are the almost unanimous—Mordred is to be the successor. 

It’s a pity, really, Lancelot thinks. Without Morgan, Galahad would have made a good king.

With her, though, everyone can all see the obvious power grab from the vain, finicky witch. (It’s a little too obvious though, even for her. Lancelot can’t help but wonder if she wants something else.)

—

—

“I’m sorry,” Arthur tells his sister quietly as the small council trickles out. He gives her shoulder a comforting squeeze.

“It’s not your fault.” Morgan’s eyes rest on Lancelot, and Lancelot is surprised to find disappointment there rather than anger.

—

—

_The books turn into other things. Galahad starts including things that most captors won’t give their captives—a sword, for one._

_“You’re starting to look a little chubby,” Galahad says when Lancelot asks. “Maybe this’ll incentivize you to exercise. Keep in shape.”_

_Lancelot looks at Galahad’s belly. “You’re one to talk.”_

_Galahad laughs._

_—_

_(Somehow, his visits turn into sword practices that make Lancelot even more nostalgic.)_

—

—

Lancelot notices a ring of green and gold on Galahad’s hand, nearly identical to the one that Morgan wears, and he _knows_.

That alone hurts—but what hurts more is the fact that Galahad hadn’t even bothered to tell his own father in the first place.

—

—

It’s Arthur, not Galahad, that tells him about the “good” news too. “I’m going to be an uncle!” Arthur exclaims, practically giddy from joy. Merlin is dutifully on his heels, apparently doing his best to keep the king from acting like a fairy hyped up on milk and honey.

“You’re already an uncle,” Lancelot points out dryly. “Five times over.”

“Well, I’m going to be an uncle again!” Arthur grins.

Lancelot still doesn’t understand the excitement. (Arthur certainly hadn’t been this excited at the prospect of being an uncle once Morgause’s first son was born.) “Morgause is pregnant again?”

“Different sister!”

Lancelot’s brow furrows. “You only have two…” he trails off as the realization hits him. Lancelot stares at Arthur, whose grin seems to be more maniacal by the second. _Holy mother of—_ “Morgan’s pregnant?” Lancelot manages to choke out.

Even in his dizzying euphoria, Arthur is still sober enough to look at Lancelot oddly. “Didn’t Galahad tell you?”

“Shi—“ Lancelot hadn’t expected Galahad to actually… He hasn’t even realized that his son knew _anything_ about the fairer sex. _How in seven hells did his innocent son even know where to put it?_ “Oh for the love of god!” He storms off to go off to give his son the disciplining of a lifetime.

“At least try to act surprise when he tells you!” Arthur calls after him. “You certainly didn’t hear about it from me!”

To Lancelot’s surprise, Galahad suddenly barrels in front of him, panting and clearly out of breath. “There you are!” Galahad says between gasps. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. The Joyous Gard... The stables… The training fields… The barracks…” At the look on Lancelot’s face, his son hesitates. “Did… Did Arthur tell you already?”

Galahad seems to be trying to find a polite way of putting ‘sorry that I got married in the Mirrorlands to Morgan without telling you or inviting you but to be fair, no one except for Merlin and Arthur and Kay were even in the Mirrorlands at the time’ and ‘also, we’re having a baby.’ He’s meandering, and Lancelot feels sorry enough for him that he cuts him off.

“Galahad.”

His son stops midsentence about some metaphor for marriage or something sappy.

“I already know.”

Galahad’s eyes widen. “Oh.”

“I’m very happy for you,” Lancelot forces himself to say. (He is and he isn’t. Part of him, the part that wants to be Galahad’s father, wants to be there for his only grandchild. The smart part of him, on the other hand, is vociferously against the entire affair.)

“You _are?_ ”

Lancelot is almost hurt by the doubt in his own son’s voice. “Yes, I am.” He tries to give his son a reassuring smile, but judging by the look on Galahad’s face, Lancelot knows he hasn’t succeeded. “If possible, I want to be there for my only grandchild.”

“So you can use them as pawn too?”

“No.” (And he hates himself a little for actually meaning it.) “I want to make up for not being there for you.”

Galahad fixes him with a solemn stare before his face breaks into a little grin. “Okay.”

And for brief, fleeting, beautiful moment, Galahad is his _son_ and not just his bastard.

—

—

_His son keeps toying with him—just like he had toyed with him at the Loom of Fate. Galahad, after all, these years, still has that nasty habit of not fighting at his full capacity unless pushed. Even as the sword clatters from Lancelot’s hands again, Lancelot scrambles to pick it up again and demands another round._

_Galahad checks his watch. “I don’t see why not.”_

_It’s like old times, Lancelot thinks, although when Galahad was just a boy, it was the opposite way around._

—

—

Lancelot accidentally stumbles upon his son and Morgan only once. It’s when Morgan has resorted to illusion magic to hide her very telling bump and Galahad is being more overprotective and antsy than usual. (Personally, Lancelot has given into the excitement at the prospect of being a grandfather—even if the child in question is _Morgan’s_ too.) The pair are in the secluded courtyard, out of sight and out of range of listening ears.

They’re so wrapped up in each other that Lancelot, with a sinking feeling in his stomach, doesn’t quite know where one ends and the other begins.

"A kick that hard?" Galahad’s smile quirks ever so slightly, and the shadow leaves his face. He laughs, affectionately reaching out to brush a hand back over Morgan’s stomach. "It's definitely a girl."

"Please, Galeas." Morgan rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t pull away. She tangles her fingers with his, her smile all soft curves instead of sharp edges.

“She’ll be just as feisty and beautiful as her mother.” Galahad presses a kiss to her cheek. In a lower voice, he murmurs softly, “I hope she has your hair.” He grins, stealing another kiss. “And your smile.”

Morgan smiles at that, blithely leaning against him. “I hope she has your eyes,” she whispers back.

“Hopefully that’s all she inherits,” Galahad teases. He rubs his nose to hers, looking every bit the excited father and doting husband. (It’s a look, Lancelot realizes, that his son wears well, as if it’s a second skin.)

Morgan shakes her head in mock exasperation, her lips brushing the corner of Galahad’s mouth. “You sell yourself short, Galeas.”

“As do you, my lady.” Galahad reaches down to kiss her hands before his fingers drift back to Morgan’s stomach. “Our child will want for nothing.”

“I should hope so.” Morgan affectionately hits his shoulder. “Between her doting uncle and crazy aunt and her grandfather and Merlin _and_ the two of us? It’ll be a miracle if she doesn’t grow up to be a brat.”

“I know her mother will be make sure she’s raised right.” Galahad’s eyes are shining even as Morgan’s cheeks flush and she diverts her eyes. He lifts her chin until she finally returns his gaze. “You’re going to be an amazing mother, Morgan.”

“And you’ll be the best father in the world, Galeas.” Morgan closes the distance between them, her hand reaching up to tangle itself in Galahad’s hair. Humming contentedly, Galahad leaves a trail of kisses down her neck. He holds her close, and this is the happiest Lancelot has seen the boy since he returned home from the Grail Quest.

(He wishes that he himself could have done this for his own son.)

—

When Lancelot sees a few people coming up the path, he shoos them away.

The very least he can do is let his son and his wife have a few more moments longer.

—

—

_“Ms. Cillian reminded me of Morgan, you know,” Lancelot comments as Galahad is reluctantly recounting the Librarians most recent exploit. “Wrong shade of red and color eyes, but close enough. I assume she’s your favorite Librarian. Mr. Jones is just a walking reminder of what you did. Mr. Stone looks too much like Gawain for your liking.”_

_Galahad looks at him. “My favorite Librarian is already dead,” he says quietly._

_“I’m sorry.” He means it. Lancelot recalls a Librarian during World War II that had Morgan’s red hair and brilliant smile and Galahad’s trusting eyes._

_Reincarnation is rare, but not unheard of._

_Lancelot may have killed more Librarians than the current Guardian has seen stars, but (thankfully) he hadn’t been the one to kill that particular Librarian or her Guardian._

_(The person who did probably welcomed death after Galahad was through with him.)_

_“Don’t be.” Galahad’s face darkens, his eyes burning with Hellfire. “You weren’t the one who failed to save her twice over.”_

—

—

They lose the baby.

Something must have gone wrong. (“Childbirth,” Galahad had once told Lancelot darkly, worriedly, “is dangerous.”) Lancelot hadn’t been allowed to be in the room, but he saw all the blood when Galahad had been cleaning up the mess. Lancelot finds his son washing his hands in the basin outside, meticulously scrubbing under his fingernails and blankly staring at nothing. His eyes are red and puffy. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days—he probably hasn’t.

“Galahad.” Lancelot reaches out to give his son’s shoulder a squeeze. “You’re not with Morgan?”

“Arthur’s with her,” he says quietly. The basin, Lancelot notices, is crimson red. “She’ll be fine... She… told me to go away.”

“Oh.” Lancelot knows the feeling well. Guinevere did that quite often to him back in the old days, before she gave into her heart and sin. “She just… She just needs a little time, son.”

When Galahad doesn’t correct him, Lancelot is more than a little worried. 

“Maybe I wasn’t destined to be a father,” Galahad whispers, that serene smile returning to his face. “What does a bastard—“

“You’re not a bastard,” Lancelot snaps. He pulls Galahad into a fierce embrace. “You. Are. My. _Son._ ”

Galahad looks at him, and he finally lowers his face to Lancelot’s shoulder and just breaks, shatters into a million fragmented pieces. His tears stain Lancelot’s shirt. For a moment, Lancelot finally sees what Morgan must have seen all along—his son, just flesh and blood, skin and bone, and human, no better or worse than any of them but still trying so desperately to see the good in everything and everyone.

And now, that man is finally breaking apart in his hands.

—

Lancelot doesn’t know how to put him back together.

—

—

_“You haven’t told the Librarians or Guardian about our little tête-à-têtes, have you?” Lancelot asks after a particularly grueling spar that leaves them both looking slightly winded._

_“No.” Galahad stares aimlessly off into the distance._

_“Why not?”_

_“Do you think they need to know?”_

_“I would want to know if a comrade was conspiring with a former enemy.”_

_“Ah, well…” Galahad trails off. “This is personal business unrelated to the Library.”_

_“You haven’t told them everything.” Lancelot realizes. Understandable, really. Galahad had never told anybody—not even Morgan—about what happened in the two years it took him to truly achieve the Holy Grail. “Is this why you keep coming back? Because I’m the only one that knows?”_

_Galahad shrugs. “Maybe.”_

_Lancelot groans, reaching out to ruffle Galahad’s hair affectionately. “And here I thought it was because of my company.”_

_“Maybe.” Galahad doesn’t pull away._

—

—

They’ve changed. They all have.

Galahad has become absolutely brutal when it comes to protecting the people he loves. Morgan is downright bloodthirsty in battle, racking up body counts without even batting an eye. The two together manage to reign the other in, but when they’re apart, Lancelot himself is terrified at the prospect of fighting against either of them.

The only positive is that Galahad and Lancelot have become closer. It’s Lancelot that reminds him of duty and honor and the code when Morgan isn’t around. It’s Lancelot that Galahad reluctantly confides in.

(It’s an odd feeling, really—he almost feels like an actual father.)

But even Lancelot can’t reign Galahad in forever.

When Morgan is fatally wounded and drained of her magic, Galahad goes on the warpath to try to save her. Finally, he finds the thief who managed to nick her with the knife in question and hauls the boy, kicking and screaming, into the room that Morgan is being attended to.

“Get out.” His voice is cold as his eyes rest on all of the healers and finally Lancelot. “All of you.”

—

Lancelot doesn’t know what Galahad did after the door closed with a bang, but whatever he did must have worked. Morgan, it seems, is as good as new, ready and raring to go.

The thief, however… Based on the evidence, it looks like the thief had tried to jump out the window in a vain attempt to escape.

Lancelot knows better. (They all do.)

“I can’t lose her,” Galahad whispers, as if this is a secret. (If it is, it is the worst kept open secret in all of Camelot.)  He watches Morgan’s chest steadily rise and fall, almost afraid that if he doesn’t watch her, she will disappear. “ _I can’t lose her_.”

Lancelot gives his son’s shoulder a squeeze. “I know.” (They all do.)

—

Blood is thicker than water, and the blood never washes out of Galahad’s hands.

—

—

_“Why don’t you just kill her?” Lancelot asks when Galahad is complaining about the destruction that Morgan has left in her wake over the past thousand years. “We both know you are perfectly capable of taking her head on.”_

_Galahad freezes, eyes clouding with pain. His expression is the same as it was all those years ago when he nearly did lose her to a thief._

_“You can’t,” Lancelot murmurs, the realization hitting him. “Galahad…”_

_“Big or small, we must do our duty.” Galahad’s smile is sad. “I swore the vows, after all.”_

_Lancelot continues, “And as a knight—“_

_“—I take those vows seriously,” Galahad finishes._ _Lancelot sees a familiar glint of green and gold around Galahad’s neck and he **knows.** _

_Like father, like son, he thinks bitterly. They’ve both only loved one woman their entire lives._

_It leads to their destruction every single time._

—

—

With Galahad’s fall, Camelot begins to crumble.

Merlin has vanished. Arthur is looking more harried day by day. Mordred’s power is rising and wild magic and darkness and corruption are scouring the land.

Camelot’s fall is just a matter of time.

It’s Morgan that comes up with the plan, Mordred that acts as the face, and Lancelot that makes sure everything goes according to said plan. Camelot needs to be rejuvenated, to fall before being revived from the ashes like a phoenix. Morgan and Lancelot both know of the prophecy of Mordred killing Arthur, and they’re both willing to do anything to protect the ones they love.

It’s a half-decent plan that involves raising an army, killing some of his brother in arms, and betraying his son. (But if it protects Arthur and Guinevere and Galahad, it will be worth it in the end.)

“The things we do for love,” Lancelot says, as he raises his glass in a mock toast.

Morgan just gives him a sad smile.

—

—

It doesn’t work.

Prophecy, it seems, is not the same as a prophecy cube, and even outside forces can’t fight Camelot’s eventual fate. Arthur lies dead. Guinevere is infuriated with him, retiring to a nunnery and refusing to speak to him. And Galahad…

In the end, his son is the one that sets everything on fire. Galahad’s eyes are dead as he envelopes Camelot in hellfire and watches the corruption and darkness burn away to leave nothing in its wake.

(“I have to keep the balance between chaos and order,” Galahad murmurs to himself. “I promised. Big or small, we must do our duty.”)

Lancelot thinks, as Galahad disarms him and holds him at sword point, that he deserves to die, that if anyone should kill him, it should be his son. To his surprise, Galahad looks at Lancelot long and hard before sheathing his sword.

“Where’s Morgan?” his son asks quietly. “Is she all right? Is she alive?”

(Even though his son has fallen from grace, he’s still worthy of the Siege Perilous.)

Lancelot looks at him pityingly and answers honestly.

Galahad is gone without another word. 

—

—

He once wanted to know what the boy would look like broken—and Lancelot finally has his answer: _heartbreaking._ Lancelot watches someone so beautiful, so full of life, collapse and rot from within.

Galahad dies with Camelot, and only a shadow of what his son was and could be remains.

—

—

When he sees his son again, Galahad lets him go again. A hundred years have done nothing to heal old wounds, but Galahad is still a knight, still the same boy whose eyes burned hotter than dragon fire, even as his hands become stained in sin.

Lancelot is beyond redemption, but his son isn’t.

“You really are the greatest knight in the world,” Lancelot murmurs as he begins to make his escape. “Much better than I could ever be.”

—

Maybe a small part of him hopes that his son will still be better than he is.

(That’s a lie—all of him wants his son to be better.)

—

—

—

_“You know, all the legends about you…” Lancelot begins._

_“I know. You’re the reason.” Galahad’s eyes reveal nothing. “I know.”_

_Lancelot remembers telling Sir Thomas Malory and Tennyson about his son, twisting it so Lancelot could give his legend all the things that he had wanted for his son, history and the truth be damned. History, after all, is written by the victors, and surviving is victory in it of itself._

_He gave Galahad’s temper to himself. He shouldered all of Galahad’s and his sins for the both of them. He had his son immediately respected for pulling that damn sword from the stone. He had Galahad simply walk into heaven rather than live through his own personal hell._

_In the end, he wove a story in which Galahad never met Morgan le Fay._

_He wants to remember his son as he was, the purest and most perfect knight, even if it wasn’t entirely true. That in the legends, Lancelot, for all his faults, was there for his son._

_( **I love you. I want the best for you.** )_

_But even after all these years, Lancelot still can’t read his own son at all._

_“There are a few things that can kill a god, you know,” Galahad says conversationally. “To name a few… Excalibur… Totsuka-no-Tsurugi… Hellfire…” The black flames from hell begin to pool in Galahad’s hands, bursting to life, before Galahad snuffs them out with a mere wave of his hand._

_“Why do you think I never used it on you?” Galahad asks quietly. They both know he has had ample opportunities. “You may be my father—“_

_“But you’re not my son,” Lancelot finishes bitterly._

_“But I am,” Galahad corrects gently, “even if I don’t want to be.”_

_It’s like looking at a reflection of his son’s younger self, before he fell so deeply, madly in love, before he fell from grace and became tainted with sin._

_His eyes still burn,_ _hotter than dragon-fire, fiercer than the strongest steel._

_Galahad smiles, and Lancelot’s heart breaks. “Bastard or not, what kind of knight would I be if I killed my own father?”_

—

—

In the end, Lancelot supposes, it’s simple too.

A father loves his son and his son begrudgingly loves him back.

—

—

(In the end, they’ve hit rock-bottom together, but maybe Lancelot can help lift his son back up.)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry for the inaccuracies. Technically, Camelot was supposed to be in the 700's based on Jenkins' age, but I made this at classic medieval fic because I was lazy. I’m sorry I don’t know how knights in the 700’s acted, okay! I tried. Seriously. I did a mediocre google search before giving up. (My inner Librarian told me to keep trying but my inner snek said to stop because I had to do actual work...) Besides, Lancelot's internal narration is probably converting it into modern English. Probably. 
> 
> Galahad never interacts with Morgan le Fay in legends…I think. I did a lot of reading. (Actually, though.) But he obviously has a history with Morgan in this show so… PLOT BUNNY. (Also, it gives me an excuse to write some fluff.) I think it helps to see the nuances in their relationship from a third party, since everyone's an unreliable narrator and sometimes only want to remember the good times and not the bad. 
> 
> For those of you who are not familiar with Arthurian legend, Morgause is Arthur's half-sister and Morgan's sister and is the mother of Gawain, Gaheris, Gareth, Agravain, and Mordred. Bors is Lancelot's cousin and like Percival (who interestingly enough, was the original Grail Hero), went on the Grail fetch quest with Galahad and followed Lancelot around after Lancelot basically became a wandering monk-hermit dude in exile. Morien and Lamorak are also mentioned but aren't quite as famous as the rest. 
> 
> Fun Fact: In Arthurian Legend, Galahad mirrors Arthur when he was first introduced by pulling the sword with the red hilt out of the stone and basically achieving the Grail and walking into Heaven. 
> 
> I’ll update Rise and Fall soon (hopefully). I have to hammer out a couple of details and things before I can update properly. Life keeps getting in the way.... But at least this is a nice little teaser for what is to come. If all goes well and I am finally satisfied with chapters, I'll probably post(?). 
> 
> This is also my half-hearted attempt to explain why Jenkins does not like thieves initially--too many memories and it reminds him of the catalyst for his fall. 
> 
> Sorry this was a little long. I guess it wasn’t so much of a race to the bottom of the page as it was a marathon...  
> …I’ll stop now. 
> 
> Thanks for hanging in there! Hope you enjoyed this work! :D


End file.
